All the Single Ladies: A Novel

by Dorothea Benton Frank

  “Not that I was listening, but families are the bedrock upon which this country was built. If it were not for women, this whole darn society of ours would have fallen apart ages ago!” She turned to me, ignored me, then turned to Pickle and grinned. “Darling baby!”

  Pickle, of course, hopped up, scampered to her side, and sat obediently.

  “Lisa? Meet my grandmother, Miss Trudie. Let me help you to your chair.”

  “How am I to sit in my chair if someone else has parked themselves in it?”

  She glared at me but I knew she was teasing. Nonetheless, I got up promptly. She shuffled over and eased herself down into it with a rather dramatic flourish, exclaiming “Oomph!” as she sat.

  “It is nice to meet you, Lisa. It is even nicer to meet your Pickle!” She laughed.

  “Thanks! It’s great to meet you too! And, I love your turquoise,” I said. “Is it Zuni?”

  “How should I know? I have had these baubles since before Woodstock!”

  “Oh! Did you go to Woodstock?” I asked without doing the mental math.

  “Do I look like a hippie to you?”

  “No, ma’am!” I said, but thought, Yes, ma’am, you sure as hell do.

  “Maybe I could have been a mother to a hippie, but my Gertie was a stick in the mud, God rest her soul.”

  Suzanne had yet to reveal what happened to her mother, but since Miss Trudie spoke of her in the past tense and prayed her soul to rest well, it was safe to assume she was among the dearly departed with all of Carrie’s husbands.

  “Oh!” I said, and sat in a Kennedy rocker across from them.

  “Yes, sirree, Bob. It’s still a mystery to me how she ever got a husband and where those three girls of hers came from. She never even went on a date, as far as I knew.”

  “Oh, Miss Trudie,” Suzanne said. “You know that’s not the truth. Momma dated all kinds of boys. She was a homecoming queen, for heaven’s sake.”

  “She was? Now, you would think I would remember something like that,” Miss Trudie said, and then she smiled at me. She looked back to Suzanne. “Well, if I am confused about the facts, it is probably because somebody has not given me my glass of sherry!”

  “Oh, Miss Trudie! So sorry!” Suzanne said, and got up. She kissed her grandmother on the cheek before disappearing back inside the house.

  “I have to keep her on her toes,” Miss Trudie said to Carrie and me. “Otherwise our whole routine gets sloppy and goes out the window! Now tell me about yourself, Lisa. Who are your ­people?”

  “Well, my parents are retired and living in Hilton Head. They’re Carol and Alan St. Clair.”

  “St. Clair. St. Clair? Hmm. Did they own an antiques business on lower King Street?”

  “They surely did. They finally sold it when those chain stores came to town. Big chains added to what you can buy on the Internet put a serious cramp in their sales.”

  “Well, darlin’, the whole world is heading straight to hell in a handbasket, if you ask me,” Miss Trudie declared. “And, how do they like living in Hilton Head?”

  “They adore it,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be. I cannot stand the place. Every building looks the same. No landmarks. I’d get lost going to the grocery store. Anyway, you are awfully lucky to have parents considering how old you are. If my darling Suzanne’s parents did not drive off a cliff in Italy they would be gone by now anyway. Or maybe not. But they would be almost my age!”

  “Goodness!” I said because it was clear she was waiting for a response.

  Then she started to fidget. “I am completely famished. I had tomatoes for lunch, so I think I am going to make myself a cream-­cheese-­and-­olive sandwich.”

  Olive. The key word had been spoken.

  Suzanne, who returned and handed Miss Trudie her glass, arched an eyebrow and smirked. Carrie nodded.

  “My favorite,” I said, adding, “or cream cheese and pineapple.”

  “Yum,” Carrie said.

  “Do we even own any olives?” Miss Trudie asked, and tossed back her shot of sherry like a frat boy swigging from a bottle of tequila.

  “I just opened a new jar,” Suzanne said. “It’s on the second shelf in the refrigerator. Do you want a hand?”

  “I think I can still manage a sandwich. I am not dead yet.”

  Miss Trudie looked from face to face to see if we were horrified, amused, or in agreement. Carrie gave her a smile, Suzanne shook her head, and I thought . . . well, I understood that kind of humor too well.

  “You sound like a lot of our patients,” I said, smiling.

  “What? Are you a doctor?”

  “No, I’m a nurse and I work at Palmetto House.”

  “Humph. I have heard that place is more fun than a barrel of monkeys but I like being in my own home. Even if the ser­vice is spotty.”

  “Miss Trudie!” Suzanne said in mock horror.

  “Well,” I said, “the current wisdom is that you’re better off in your own house for a whole lot of reasons. As long as it’s safe and you don’t have any extraordinary medical needs.”

  “Please. Besides, I am not quite old enough for that joint. I still have all my own teeth,” Miss Trudie said.

  “Well, who else’s would you have?” Carrie said, and then when she realized we were looking at her like she was cockeyed, she added, “Oh.”

  “So, well then, I will just excuse myself and my teeth and say good night. I just wanted to check on the young ­people and make sure y’all were behaving.”

  I loved Miss Trudie and I wanted a Miss Trudie of my own.

  “I’ll come say good night before I turn in,” Suzanne said.

  We watched her slowly rise, shuffle across the porch, and disappear inside the house. We listened to the rhythm of her footfalls as they faded. Shuffle, thunk, shuffle, thunk.

  “She’s amazing!” I said.

  “She is the cat’s mother,” Miss Trudie called back to us, in a voice laced with insult.

  We burst out laughing.

  “Well, the cat’s mother is some character,” I said loudly enough for her to hear.

  “She’s really wonderful,” Suzanne said. “Frankly, I don’t know where I’d be without her.”

  “I need a Miss Trudie in my life. You know what’s really terrible?” I said. Suzanne and Carrie turned to me, waiting for me to impart some new story. “I’ve made two decisions that have almost wrecked my life. I never thought I could get this close to disaster. I was the careful one, you know?”

  They knew all about my yoga studio and remembered how it never quite took off.

  Suzanne said, “Me too. Pick the wrong man and whammo! I’ve got no children, no husband to depend on. Really! And I was the whiz kid in the family. All my sisters did was sleep with the right guys. I didn’t. As soon as Miss Trudie closes her eyes for the last time, I’m going to be homeless.”

  “Oh, Suzanne. Don’t say that. Your sisters wouldn’t throw you out,” I said.

  “You don’t know her sisters,” Carrie said. “They’re some tough customers when it comes to money.”

  “Carrie’s right. Both of their husbands are Wall Street types. One works for a junk bond firm and the other one is a day trader. They’ll say, look, what’s ours is ours and what’s yours is yours and all we want is what’s ours. Period. So I have my business, but even that was started with money from Miss Trudie. I’m going to have to repay her estate.”

  “Surely your business earns enough to live on,” I said, knowing even in my fermented fog that the answer wasn’t one bit of my business, but it was almost dark and we had just pulled a second cork. “My God! You’re the best floral designer in town!”

  “Thanks. Maybe it earns enough to live on,” Suzanne said. “But not enough to live here. I mean, one of the reasons I’m so busy is that my rates are a lot cheape
r than anyone else. So when I close my books each year there’s not much left. And beach house properties are worth crazy money even if the house has seen better days.”

  “Look, after three husbands, you’d think I’d be rolling in it. I didn’t even do that well,” Carrie said.

  “Carrie? Marriage is supposed to be more than a business transaction,” Suzanne said.

  “I know that! Well, theoretically. Seven years I gave that man! Seven years! What did I walk away with besides the trauma of burying another man? I’ve got this ring, my diamond studs, a four-­year-­old Mercedes that doesn’t even have Sirius or an updated satellite GPS and maybe fifty thousand in cash that I had stuffed in shoe boxes. That’s it. And I’ve been down the aisle three times! You want to know why I’m on About Time all the time? I need Mr. Fourth tout suite!”

  Her assets sounded pretty good to me. Fifty thousand in cash was a fortune in my book. I could live on that for a long time.

  “How’d you get that much money into the shoe boxes?” I asked.

  “Well, every time John and I did the wild thing, I’d take two twenties out of his wallet and stash them away.”

  I wasn’t an accountant but a rough calculation in my head meant they had sex almost every other day. That was impressive.

  “Which is way more sex than I’m interested in! And, Carrie? I think I’d keep that detail about being widowed three times to myself,” Suzanne said. “Not to mention they were all named John.”

  What? I thought.

  “You think?” Carrie said. “I’m just saying I need another husband. Preferably one without greedy children.”

  “Maybe we all do!” I said. “It sure would be wonderful not to worry about money for once in my life. I’m going to be working until I’m older than everyone at Palmetto House or until I drop dead. Whichever comes first. Remember when everyone was expected to retire at sixty-­five?”

  “Who can afford to retire? Listen. I can’t even afford to change the oil in my Benz!” Carrie said.

  “Now, that is a first-­world problem!” Suzanne said, and shook her head. “I’m going to be working until I do the flowers for my own funeral!”

  “Unless something gets us first like poor Kathy,” I said.

  We were quiet then for a moment. Was it worse to moan about no end of work in sight for us or worse to face an abbreviated life? Were we as ungrateful or hopeless as we sounded? No, we were just being honest.

  “I’d rather work for another thirty years than die from cancer like Kathy did,” Suzanne said. “She worked hard all her life and still never saw the northern lights.”

  “But she had really remarkable friends,” I said.

  “I hate cancer,” Carrie said. “And I loved that girl like a sister.”

  “Me too. Lisa? Do you think processed food causes it? Cancer, I mean.”

  “Well, the nitrates in this sausage I’m devouring don’t help.”

  “I know but I love it,” Carrie said. “So how much of illness is caused by what we eat?”

  “I wish I knew the answer to that. I mean, there’s evidence to support the impact of diet. But the current thought is that we are what we eat. Not to mention environmental considerations like too much sun or exposure to asbestos and so forth. I mean, the only way to avoid cancer is great genes and raising your own food.”

  “That’s probably true,” Suzanne said. “If I were going to grow things, I’d grow flowers for my business. As it is, I have enough to do just trying to keep up with my lavender and my rosemary.”

  “I’d grow weed,” Carrie said, and we stared at her, slack-­jawed in surprise. “Why not? There’s big money in pot. I used to smoke pot with my second husband—­no, wait—­maybe it was my first, and let me tell you sex was never better!”

  I wasn’t getting too deep into this topic, no matter what.

  “I’ve heard that,” Suzanne said.

  “What?” I said.

  “The part about sex and smoking weed and how, you know, it’s supposed to be amazing,” Suzanne said. “The sex, that is.”

  “Oh, yeah, sex. I remember sex. It’s true,” I said. “I mean, I’m not an expert on this stuff, that’s for sure. But, well, years ago I used to see this guy that was well, really inappropriate . . .”

  “What does that mean? Inappropriate?” Suzanne asked.

  “He was younger.”

  “How many years?” Carrie said.

  “More like decades,” I said.

  “Whoa!” Carrie said.

  “Don’t be so judgmental!” Suzanne said. “Your last husband was decades older than you!”

  “That’s different,” Carrie said.

  “Yeah, it actually is. I mean, I’m pretty sure sex with an older man must’ve been way different than spending the night with Surfer Boy!” I said.

  Okay, yes, I had smoked the tiniest bit of pot in my past and as a nurse it wasn’t something I was particularly proud of either. But I hadn’t touched it in years and never would again.

  “Lisa! You bad, bad girl!” Suzanne exclaimed, laughing.

  “I told you he was inappropriate!” I said. “I was younger and stupid.”

  “Well, darlin’?” Carrie said. “Here’s to inappropriate!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, and thought, Oh, boy, I sense a slippery slope in my immediate future if I continue to run around with these two.

  “Kathryn loved pot brownies,” Carrie said.

  “What?” I said. I was surprised.

  “I know. I had a problem with it at first too. But,” Suzanne said, “she was terminal and she hurt all over. What’s the harm there?”

  “Honey,” I said, “don’t get me started. I’ll tell y’all a story another time. Why we don’t have medical marijuana for cancer patients is beyond me. But for now? I’m like Switzerland on this one. No judgments.”

  Chapter 5

  Palmetto House

  I went to work on Monday with boxes of Kathy’s property and dropped two of them on the back counter of the nurses’ station.

  “What’s all this?” Judy asked.

  “Oh, DVDs, books, nightgowns. Kathryn Harper’s contribution to our residents.”

  “Well, that’s awfully nice,” Judy said. “Is there more to bring in?”

  “Just a ­couple of boxes,” I said, heading back out.

  “Do you need a hand?” Margaret said.

  “No, I’ve got it,” I said. “But thanks.”

  It occurred to me then, as it did from time to time, that helping other ­people was one of the things that made the world tolerable. Judy and Margaret were always ready to pitch in. I was too. It was in our nature and it’s probably what led us to nursing in the first place. The reward of nursing was that it was satisfying to provide a little comfort or just to let a lonely patient know that someone actually cared about their well-­being. The donation from Kathy’s estate would bring hours of enjoyment to a lot of ­people.

  I brought the rest of the boxes in, and when I got to the desk Judy and Margaret were already sorting through the books.

  “I’ve been dying to read this,” Margaret said, holding a book close to her chest.

  “You’re a pervert,” Judy said.

  “Yeah, that’s me all right,” Margaret said. “That’s what everybody says.”

  “Oh, right. What is it?” I asked. Margaret showed me the cover and I almost fainted. “Fifty Sh—­! No way! How did I not see that?”

  “You tell me,” Margaret said. “But I’m taking this home.”

  “And don’t bring it back!” I said. “Good grief! Kathy Harper read erotica? Our beloved residents don’t need any encouragement in that department.”

  “Boy, you can say that again!” Judy said.

  Margaret and Judy looked at each other and cracked up laughing.
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  “Okay, y’all. What did I miss?” Something had obviously occurred over the weekend and I was about to hear what it was. “Spill it!”

  “All right, so old Mrs. Richards in 317? She’s had the hots for Mr. Morrison in 215 ever since Mrs. Morrison was part of a Celestial Recall?”

  Celestial Recall was one of many terms we used for those who went to the light, dropped their body, or just flat-­out flatlined.

  “I’m aware,” I said.

  Mrs. Morrison’s passing had been an uneventful surprise. She simply didn’t wake up in the morning among the living. And Mr. Morrison’s bereavement period had been remarkably brief. He had wasted no time in calling Ben Silver’s, a lovely men’s boutique in downtown Charleston, and ordering himself a new kelly-­green sport coat and a blue seersucker suit. On Saturday nights, he wore one of these with white buckskins and a pink carnation in his lapel, that carnation being one that he removed from someone’s floral arrangement at their bedside when they weren’t looking. We called him Marty Robbins for some singer from the fifties who recorded a song about sport coats and boutonnieres. Anyway, among the octogenarians, he was The Dude.

  “You’re not gonna believe . . .” Judy said, with tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks.

  “We caught them in the shower together,” Margaret sputtered between laughs. “One of them accidentally pulled the emergency cord.”

  “Tell her what he said, Margaret! Lisa, you’re gonna die when you hear this! Oh God! I haven’t laughed this hard all year!” Judy leaned over and slapped her leg.

  And Margaret, in that deadpan style of hers, said, “He said, ‘Oh! Excuse me, I was just looking for my little rubber duck.’ ”

  “Rubber duck?” I said, and opened my eyes wide in disbelief.

  “Yes. On my mother’s grave. His little rubber duck.”

  “Oh God! That’s crazy! What did Mrs. Richards say?”

  “She said”—­Margaret paused to cross her heart with her finger—­“ ‘Michael? I think it’s time for you to go home! Here’s your duck.’ And I will not tell you where it was concealed but it wasn’t where you think.”